


Casey vs. the Anti-Suit

by distinctive_pineapples



Series: False Faces 'verse [1]
Category: Chuck (TV), White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:11:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9902501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distinctive_pineapples/pseuds/distinctive_pineapples
Summary: Leave it to Chuck and Morgan's curiosity to ruin a mission-free week. Some incomplete Intersect data forces Casey to retrieve information from a source--a certain bald, bespectacled, philosopher-quoting, conspiracy-theorizing con man.[Originally posted on Fanfiction in January 2011. I just got very sentimental about this series and decided to bring it over here.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> As noted in the summary, this is an old work of mine from 2011, back when both Chuck and White Collar were still on the air, and is the first work in the "False Faces" series I had been working on at the time. Though I left this 'verse untouched for five years (despite being in the middle of a story), I still have a special place in my heart for it, so I wanted to give it the AO3 treatment.
> 
> This all started because I got the idea of having Mozzie as one of Casey's informants while watching "Chuck vs. the Aisle of Terror" (4x06), which featured Casey and Morgan retrieving information from an informant. The first draft of this was intended to be an AU of that particular episode, but I instead spun it into its own story and, well, I ended up with this and the beginning of the "False Faces" 'verse.
> 
> Considering how long ago this was written, the timeframe goes way back to some of the earlier seasons of both shows. This particular story was meant to take place between "Chuck vs. the Balcony" and "Chuck vs. the Gobbler" (4x11 and 4x12 of Chuck) and post-"Burke's Seven" (2x10) but pre-"Forging Bonds" (2x11) for White Collar.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this old favorite!

The Crown Victoria roared as it sped through the darkened streets of Burbank, mimicking the growl resounding in Casey’s chest. He was _not_ looking forward to this meeting, no matter how important.

 It all started with a disgraced FBI agent who wandered into the Buy More one day looking for a prepaid cell phone. The Intersect was able to give Chuck the agent’s name, as well as a few other names and groups (OPR, Kate Moreau, and Operation Mentor among them). The flash concluded with the image of an elegant music box and another name—Julian Larssen. Since the third major national security agency was left out of the fold in the Intersect project, there wasn’t much to the mysterious (former) Agent Garrett Fowler’s file. Still, the things that Chuck saw intrigued him, and (at Morgan’s insistence) decided to ruin Team Bartowski’s mission-free week by commencing an investigation.

 However, with Sarah off on her new deep-cover assignment, the number of sources diminished. Also, suspicions would arise if a cranky NSA colonel, a gun-shy CIA agent, and the manager of a Buy More requested information from the FBI for an unauthorized case; so all progress came to a screeching halt.

 That is, until Casey grudgingly admitted that he knew someone who might be able to help. Hoping the other two members wouldn’t accept, the grunting giant muttered that this source was a “strange, paranoid little man with a penchant for good wine and philosophical quotes. Don’t really trust him.” Alas, Chuck and Morgan were happy with any possibility they could get their hands on, and John Casey found himself calling a familiar, untraceable number.

 After the meeting was planned, the NSA agent had to fend off offers from the two lifelong best friends to provide backup. Once again, Casey explained that the informant was “paranoid, shifty, and unpredictable. He has an uneasy relationship with Feds, so I’m pretty sure most of his information is obtained illegally.” Just as he had hoped, Chuck and Morgan backed off (the latter gloomily reliving his turn as “the Magnet” for sources).

Glancing down at the slip of paper on his dashboard, Casey let out a sigh-like grunt before jerking the steering wheel to the left and pulling in between the faded yellow lines of a parking space. He killed the ignition and—reaching into the backseat—grabbed the unopened bottle of wine and his tranq gun (just in case).

His destination was almost fully covered by a pitch-black shadow, with only a sliver of moonlight shining on the grassy earth. Casey slowed his walking pace as he stepped onto the softer ground, and kept a hand on his concealed weapon. He remained in this state until he reached the first of many identical park benches, where he froze and—with a growl and a roll of his eyes—grumbled, “I saw a mockingbird in the park.”

Even with the lack of strong light, the colonel noticed some slight movement on the bench as the seated figure turned his head, exposing a small portion of his bespectacled face. “What color was the bird?” he queried in response, holding up a hand to stop Casey as he tried to sit down.

The hulking NSA agent felt a growl reverberate in his throat, and his impatience spiked as he provided an answer. “Purple.”

At this reply, the other man shot up to his full height (which was not impressive). “That wasn’t one of the codes!” he exclaimed, the moonlight reflecting off his bald head and illuminating his slightly disappointed expression. “We’ve discussed this before: green was supposed to mean ‘all clear,’ yellow was supposed to mean ‘watch your back, I may have been followed,’ and a dead bird was supposed to mean ‘abort mission, or else you’re gonna be dead too’!”

 “I can still make that last one happen,” Casey retorted, pulling out his weapon and motioning for the shorter man to sit down as he himself took a seat.

His companion took a look at the weapon (unaware that the most it could do was knock him out) and moaned, “Why are people so eager to shoot me these days?”

Casey raised his eyebrows above his narrowed eyes in incredulity. “You got shot?”

“Yes, and it’s not an experience I’d like to repeat. So will you put that thing away?”

With a grunt, the NSA agent tucked the tranq gun away. If the intimidation angle wasn’t going to work, then it was time to ask outright. “Do you have the information, Haversham?”

His quirky cohort didn’t appreciate this method either, and he went off on a tangent to avoid answering the question. “You Suits are always the same, you know? You guys always want the facts, and you want them right away.”

“Moz…” Casey growled, but the stocky man talked right over him, ignoring the warning.

“The NSA’s just as bad as the FBI. It doesn’t matter which agency—Suits are always Suits.” He paused to observe Casey and his clothes, cocking his head to the side in curiosity. “But you, you aren’t exactly Suit-like. You’re more of the hardcore, non- suit-wearing Suit.” His eyes lit up behind his glasses. “You’re like the Anti-Suit!”

“Mozzie!” the trigger-happy colonel barked, trying to get the shady con man to shut up. “The information?”

Mozzie reluctantly pulled a folder out of his coat pocket, but held it behind him as Casey reached for it. Pointing at the agent’s side, he asked just one thing—“Is that Chateau LeFranc? The one with the stable on the label and the stork on the cork?”

“Don’t you start with that,” Casey growled, grudgingly thrusting the bottle into his eager informant’s hands and snatching away the file in exchange. As Mozzie gleefully examined the label, the so-called “Anti-Suit” took a moment to recover from the rambling. This was exactly why he didn’t want to bring Grimes or Bartowski along—they would have gotten along too well with Mozzie.

Having regained his sanity, Casey turned his attention towards the folder that would hopefully satisfy Chuck’s curiosity. A few minutes later, he dropped the papers into his lap.

Mozzie noticed this movement and finally posed a question of his own: “Why are you interested in Fowler and Kate and the music box?”

“I’m not. One of my teammates… came across some incomplete information about this Fowler character. The moron and the bearded gnome he calls his best friend wanted to play Nancy Drew for a little while and go sleuthing.”

The short con man squinted at Casey skeptically. “Don’t you clandestine officials of bureaucracy have anything more… _clandestine_ to do than look into an FBI case?”

“Another member of our team is on a solo mission to take down our latest national security threat,” the colonel summarized. “We’re just waiting for news that’ll help us effectively take ‘em down.”

“‘Failure is impossible’—Susan B. Anthony,” Mozzie quoted proudly. “If the rest of your team is like you, Anti-Suit, you’re not gonna have any problems.” He paused, his lively air quickly fading. “Look, can your team of super Suits not look into Kate’s case any further?”

Casey curiously noted the sudden distinction Mozzie made. “You knew this Kate Moreau?”

The conspiracy theorist realized his flub and answered in discretion, “The case is personal to me.”

“Larssen was the guy who shot you,” the NSA agent inferred, recalling some information from the file.

“Does anything get past you? Yes, he’s the reason I spent a week in a wheelchair and nearly ended up in the system.” Mozzie shuddered dramatically at the memory, but a serious look soon returned to his face. “See, this is why you should stay out of this case—the more people in the mix of a conspiracy, the more people with targets on their backs.”

Casey understood the shady man’s logic and silently vowed to destroy the documents later that night. As he took one last look at the papers, the ‘FBI Confidential’ stamp stood out. The colonel looked suspiciously at his friend and asked, “Tell me again, how do you have a high enough clearance to get these documents?”

Moz stared at him blankly, as if he expected Casey to already know the answer. “I don’t have clearance of any kind, Anti-Suit. I have a friend with ties to both the Agency and the FBI, remember?” He shrugged and corrected himself. “Okay, maybe he doesn’t really have _full_ FBI clearance, but he’s able to get the documents. I’m just the messenger—he gives me the information; I deliver it.”

“Why can’t your mysterious friend give it to me himself?”

“He knows you. You know him,” Mozzie stated simply. “Plus, there’s a couple things keeping him from coming all the way out here to Burbank, even if he wanted to do so—first, he’s currently held up in another state _whose name I shall not divulge_ ,” he made clear to Casey before the colonel could ask, “and second, he’s kind of supposed to be… dead. Again.”

“Huh,” Casey grunted, flipping the cover of the folder closed. Ready to end Chuck’s impromptu crime-solving session and destroy the papers, he stood up and prepared to leave. “Thanks, Moz. Thank your friend for me as well.”

“Thanks for the Chateau LeFranc,” was the reply.

Casey had almost made it back to his beloved Crown Vic when the strange, short con man called out to him once more.

“Oh, yeah, Anti-Suit? There’s another reason why our mutual friend doesn’t meet with you in person—I think he’s kind of scared that you might shoot him again.”

A smirk of realization spread across Casey’s perfectly chiseled face, and it remained there even as he slipped behind the steering wheel, revved the engine, and began the journey back to Castle.

Even when he was dead to the world, Bryce Larkin still had a crucial role in meddling with Chuck Bartowski’s life.

**Author's Note:**

> While this story primarily focused on the idea of Mozzie as one of Casey's informants and could technically be read separately from the rest of the "False Faces" fics, it does establish some elements that come into play later in the series.


End file.
